Masters & Slayers, Page 4

  Marcelle stopped and eyed the prisoner. With greasy stringy hair, filthy face, and grimy hands, he painted a stellar portrait of the sighing man she had conjured earlier.

  “A coward?” Marcelle asked.

  “As if you didn’t hear me.” The man spat through the bars, narrowly missing her sleeve. “You look mighty fine with a sword against your swaggering hip, but the only man who would challenge you would be a coward himself. No real warrior would fight a woman. It ain’t chivalrous.”

  “Marcelle,” Gregor said from the end of the hall. “It is useless talking to that madman.”

  She raised a finger. “Give me a moment.” With the guard’s now-distant torch barely illuminating the cell’s window, she stepped closer and looked into the prisoner’s wild eyes. “What is your name, friend?”

  “Tibalt Blackstone, but if you’re really my friend, you’ll call me Tibber.”

  “Well, Tibber, I—”

  “And you’ll unlock this blasted door and let me go free.”

  “Really? What was your crime?”

  “Believing in truth. Speaking the truth around the wrong ears, ears that wanted only to be tickled by lies. You know what they say about such ears.”

  “I do?” Marcelle folded her arms across her chest. “What do they say?”

  “Ears of the head are like ears of the dead, they listen to nothing but air. They hear what they please, the things that appease, and the rest they pretend wasn’t said.”

  She laughed. “That’s very good. I have never heard it before.”

  “Figures.” Tibalt spat again, this time aiming away.

  Lowering her voice to a whisper, Marcelle leaned closer. “By speaking the truth, do you mean truth about …” She glanced at Gregor to gauge his patience at her delay. “About a gateway that lies as deep as this dungeon?”

  Tibalt’s eyes widened. He, too, glanced in the guard’s direction and kept his voice low. “Are you a believer? With your perfect hair and teeth, you look like one of the phony pheasants.”

  Marcelle suppressed a smile. “My hair and teeth are of no consequence, but my ears, as you say, are not dead. I wish I had time to hear your stories. You probably know a lot more than I do.”

  The old man’s tone grew soft and friendly, though his eyes stayed as wide as ever. “If you really are a friend, and your ears aren’t dead, then hear these words. The gateway to Dracon is real. I have seen it myself, but it was long ago, so long ago. My pappy showed it to me, and maybe I could find it again. Let me out, and we can find it together.”

  “Marcelle!” Gregor called. “If you want your timing to be right, we must not delay any longer.”

  She stepped away from the cell. “I will see what I can do, but I have to finish what I came here for.”

  Tibalt let his fingers slide down the bars. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. When the chosen one comes, I will know it.”

  “The chosen one?”

  “Marcelle!” Gregor called again.

  “I have to go on a journey,” Marcelle said to Tibalt, “but when I return, I will investigate your story.”

  Tibalt shrank back from the bars, disappearing in the shadows, and his voice faded with him. “If you say so, friend.“

  As Marcelle hurried toward the end of the corridor, Tibalt’s emphasis on friend pecked at her mind. Would she really be able to investigate his story? Was he a madman as Gregor suggested, willing to say anything to escape from this hellhole, or did he really know something about the Gateway?

  When she joined Gregor, he waved the torch at a downward-leading stairwell to the right. “You are to proceed alone from here.” He reached under his vest and withdrew a thin glass tube and pushed it into her hand. “You will need this.”

  Marcelle held the finger-length tube in her palm, a glow stick. She gave it a hearty shake, mixing the elements within. Almost immediately it began to emanate a pale reddish light.

  “When you get to the bottom of the stairs,” Gregor continued, “turn right and go into the passageway. I know Prescott goes in that direction.”

  Trying her best to put on a reassuring expression, Marcelle reached up and gripped the big man’s shoulder as tightly as she could. “Thank you, dear patriot. Wish me good fortune.”

  As she hustled down the stony steps, the torchlight from behind dimmed, enhancing the glow stick’s blush. The stench decreased, giving way to stale air that coated her tongue with a bitter film. Extane gas. Although colorless and odorless, its telltale sign couldn’t be missed, and its flammability was likely the reason for carrying glow sticks rather than torches. Of course, a visitor could carry a portable lamp, the kind without an exposed flame, but no one could hide a device that large under a tunic.

  When Marcelle reached the landing, a ragged brick wall blocked her way. She turned right and shielded the stick with a hand before proceeding at a slower pace. The red light created a ghostly aura, just enough to reveal the down-sloping floor of uneven stone and a wall of rough plaster on each side. As in the corridor above, doors lined the walls, heavier doors with thick beams mounted in iron brackets, blocking escape. The barred windows were smaller, barely large enough for guard or prisoner to poke a nose through.

  As she passed the cells, she longed to investigate each one. Who might be trapped within? What had they done to incur such wrath? Might some of them be innocent, merely imprisoned pawns in a political conflict?

  She shook her head. No time to stop and ask questions. Prescott might even now be ready to give away his secret.

  THREE

  IS that you, Knox?”

  Marcelle stiffened. Prescott’s voice, higher and squeakier than during his interminable speeches, seemed muffled in the thick air. She stuffed the glow stick into her trousers pocket and waited, holding her breath.

  Footsteps approached. Another glow stick appeared, casting a dimmer red aura toward her. Apparently its energy was almost exhausted. “Why are you late?” The stout man walked toward her, his face not quite recognizable in the dimness.

  Marcelle swallowed. It was too late to do anything now but go into her act. “Governor,” she said as she withdrew her glow stick. “It is I, Marcelle.”

  He stopped at her side. Even in the dimness, the anger lines on his face were clear. “What are you doing here?”

  She touched the hilt of her sword. “I heard that you requested me as your new bodyguard. As you know, I am not lax in any of my duties, so when I heard that you had entered the dungeon, I, of course, followed. His Excellency should not walk unguarded in the darkness among such vile criminals. One might reach between the bars and grab you, or perhaps pelt you with spittle.”

  Staring at her, Prescott let out a low “Hmmm” before continuing. “Who told you that I was here? Gregor?”

  “No, Governor. As a matter of fact, he strongly challenged me, but I convinced him that the blame would all be mine should you protest.”

  “Very well, then who did tell you?”

  “As you entered, one of the maids saw you from the window. She later heard me asking of your whereabouts and reported what she saw.”

  “I see.” Prescott glanced around nervously. “I suppose you want to know why I am here.”

  She straightened her body to attention. “Not at all. Who am I to question the Governor’s decisions?”

  “It is clear that I made the correct choice. You will be an excellent bodyguard.” He set a hand on her elbow. “But we must go now. It seems that your presence has dissuaded my contact from coming to meet me, and besides, if my wife learned that I was down here alone with you, she would have my head.”

  “Wait.” Marcelle set her feet, not allowing him to push her along. “I beg for the opportunity to appeal.”

  “Appeal? What do you mean?”

  “I …” She cleared her throat. She had to be direct without offending him. “I am appealing your decision to assign me as your bodyguard. I am not the best choice.”

  “Why not? Everyone knows you
are the finest swordplayer in the land, so it seems fitting that you be assigned to attend me.”

  “Perhaps, but wouldn’t some consider it odd that you are being guarded by a woman? Think of the whispers, the secret taunts by fools who don’t know any better.” She lowered her voice, hoping to sound humble. “Wouldn’t Jason Masters be a good choice? He’s strong and gifted.”

  “True, but I think I have had enough time with a peasant guarding me.” He stepped closer and extended his hand. “I prefer a touch of class and a garland of beauty near my person.”

  She shifted to the side, avoiding his touch. “Please hear me out. Appoint Jason as your bodyguard and give me leave to find a traitor in your midst.”

  “A traitor?” He drew his head back. “What traitor?”

  Marcelle bit her lip. Warning signs flashed in her mind. Prescott was obviously suspicious, but it was too late now to back out of her plan. “I have reason to believe that a member of the Underground Gateway is plotting to steal extane gas from the supply line.”

  “Oh, really? How did you come by this information?”

  “I’m sure you know that the Gateway conspirators have long hoped to raise funds to conduct a real search for the portal to the dragon world. Selling extane would be quite lucrative for them. We need to expose the traitor, and I could be your investigator.”

  “No doubt you could.” The glow stick coated his stare in crimson. “What evidence do you have that a Gateway member is behind the scheme?”

  She averted her eyes and paused for a moment. Showing reluctance and hesitation would make her more believable. “I know someone in the group.”

  “And you haven’t reported him to me?”

  “It wouldn’t be wise until I learn more. I assume you want to catch more than one bird in this trap.”

  “Indeed. I already have a bird walking into a trap. My spies tell me that one of the fools has been commissioned to search for the portal this very night. My people will follow him and, if he should pass beyond the boundary, remove his head.” He slashed a hand across his throat. “One less fool means one less headache.”

  Marcelle steeled herself. Of course, that “fool” had to be Adrian. Her next words might mean the difference between life and death for him. “I have often wondered why you have such a vendetta against those lunatics. Did one of them harm someone close to you?”

  “If you really want to know …” Prescott opened the top of his shirt, revealing a glowing patch of skin on his chest. It pulsed with yellow light as if mimicking the rhythm of the underlying heart. “Have you heard the myth of the litmus finger?”

  As if drawn to its light, she edged closer. “No. Never.”

  “It is supposed to be a guide to the dragon portal. The person who wears it under his skin will feel a guiding force, but that never happened to me. It is as useful as a one-legged stool.” He left his shirt open, scowling in its glow. “I, too, once believed in the dragon myth, and it consumed my thinking to the point that I allowed this wretched device to be implanted.”

  “Then why don’t you have it removed?”

  “The physicians believe that it has somehow attached itself to my heart, and removing it might jeopardize my life.” He touched the glow with a finger. “So there it stays, a painful reminder of my idiotic obsession. It is my passion to rid this land of that foolish tale once and for all.”

  “Why are you revealing this to me?” She backed away a step. “Why now?”

  “There are many secrets that beg to be revealed, and this one is the beginning of a puzzle that I will help you put together. Yet, I have already heard that there is a traitor in our midst, perhaps in my inner circle. Until I flush him out of hiding, I must keep the other puzzle pieces concealed.”

  “Then allow me to help you. Let me join your strike team. We will rout this portal chaser and find the thieves all in one evening. Perhaps they will lead us to the traitor.” She drew her sword and set the edge near Prescott’s cheek. “Who better than I to do battle on your front lines? The bodyguard position is window dressing, purely ceremonial. My sword would be of better use in the field.”

  He pushed the blade aside. “My spies tell me that there is also a conspiracy to take my life. Such is the desperation of the Gateway dogs. That is why I want you at my side.”

  “Why not take this opportunity to trap the assassins? Jason’s youthfulness might embolden them to come out in the open, and you will learn their identities. My presence would keep them in hiding.”

  “True, but could Jason stop an attacker? Perhaps even two attackers?”

  She lowered her voice, as if making a clandestine offer. “If I could prove his capabilities, would you grant my request?”

  He matched her volume. “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “First, assign Jason as your bodyguard for tonight’s invocation. Then bring your son to the lobby just before the invocation. I will need him as a second attacker. We will plan our theatrics so that Jason can prove his mettle.”

  “I think I am beginning to understand,” Prescott said, again stroking his chin. “If your test is successful, only then will I allow you to join the soldiers I am sending to capture the wayward bird.”

  Marcelle nodded. He had taken the bait. It was time to reel him in. “For my part, I will need a photo gun.”

  “A photo gun? Why?”

  “For insurance. The Gateway’s portal searcher might have weapons we don’t expect.” Cocking her head, she lifted her eyebrows. “Did you not consider that possibility?”

  “Very well. I will supply the gun, but, again, only if Jason passes the test in a convincing manner. If he does not …” He extended his hand and caressed her cheek. “You will be my bodyguard.”

  She firmed her jaw, refusing to cringe. Her arms begged to swing the sword and whack off his head, but she just strangled her hilt and forced her muscles to relax as she whispered, “I thought you were concerned about being alone here with me.”

  Prescott jerked his hand back. “Come, then. There is no need to stay in this dismal hole any longer.” He held his shirt open and let the litmus finger’s glow guide him toward the stairs. “At least I can use this evil device for one purpose.”

  “If it pleases you,” Marcelle said, “I prefer to wait here until you are well away from the dungeon gate.”

  Prescott stopped and turned. “Whatever for?”

  “To protect you, of course. If the two of us are seen leaving together, tongues will wag. It would not do for the governor to have such a cloud hanging over his head.”

  “I see your point. But perhaps you should leave first, as if you were unable to locate me.”

  Marcelle shook her head. “At this moment, I am still your bodyguard, and a good bodyguard never precedes the one being guarded.”

  “Very well. Just don’t stay long. There is an extane pipeline nearby, and it leaks into the dungeon. With your smaller frame, even a brief stay here could raise your blood level above acceptable limits. If you feel your heart racing, chew manna tree shavings to detoxify.”

  She nodded. “Manna shavings. Got it.”

  “I will meet you in the lobby with Randall.” With the glow from his skin patch painting a yellow aura around him, he hurried up the sloping floor and disappeared.

  Marcelle leaned against the wall and let out a breathy whisper. “I hope I didn’t get us all in trouble.”

  A woman’s voice sounded from the cell at the opposite wall. “That was a fine acting job.”

  With her sword still drawn, Marcelle padded to the door and peered through the small window, but darkness shrouded the inside. She cleared her throat and called out, “Who’s there?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  Marcelle squinted. The woman sounded young, maybe her own age or younger, and her voice came from a far corner. “I am Marcelle, daughter of Issachar, the—”

  “The Royal Banker. Yes, I know him.”

  “You know him? How?”

  “
You get to know people well when you do their laundry. Six pairs of purple stockings, one pair of pink for Cathedral, and his trousers have been taken in twice this year.”

  A sudden wave of sorrow shook Marcelle’s voice. “He … he has been ill and has lost a lot of weight.”

  “Yes, I know. The stains on his tunic indicate severe nausea. Perhaps he should reside outside the palace. It seems the royal dining room has not served him well.”

  Marcelle grasped a window bar. What could she have meant? Had he been poisoned? If so, did this prisoner have something to do with it, or was it just a flippant remark? “So were you a scullery maid?”

  “You are a sharp one, Marcelle. Most actresses I know are one step below a stump in intelligence.”

  “Actress? What do you mean?”

  “You weren’t concerned about Prescott’s reputation. It’s a good thing he isn’t skilled in detecting deception.”

  “Well, I’m not an actress. I am a warrior and a trainer of warriors.”

  “Oh. I see. Most warriors I know are dumber than actresses.”

  Marcelle suppressed a laugh. This feisty girl had a lot of spunk. “Let me guess. Your sharp tongue pierced Governor Prescott a little too deeply, and now you’re here until you learn your lesson.”

  “Hardly.” Her voice took on a bitter tone. “I am not the one needing a lesson, and I expect that I will stay here until His Stubbornness learns humility and wisdom.”

  “Then you’ll be here a very long time.” Marcelle pushed her nose between the bars. The odor of human waste grew stronger. “What is your name? Your voice is familiar.”

  “My name is Elyssa. My voice is familiar because you have heard me ask about laundry instructions for your bloodstained shirts, but since I’m a peasant, I am invisible to uppity nobles like you.”

  Marcelle smirked. No doubt she and this girl would get along very well. Either that or they would try to kill each other. “Come closer, Elyssa. I want to see you. I’m sure your face will spark my memory.”

  Metal jingled at one corner. “I am chained to the floor. I cannot come.”